The Mad Tatter Read online

  "I have some rules when it comes to tattoos," I say, pausing in front of Avery. "I bend them sometimes, for the right people, but not often. They call me a snob for it, because I don't just give people whatever they want, but I can't. Because tattoos are art… they're my art… the only art I have anymore... and I don't want to release a piece of work out into the public that I'm not proud of."

  "Like Bridgette's," Avery says quietly.

  "Exactly," I reply. "I broke a lot of my rules on that monstrosity."

  "Why?"

  Why? I've thought about that a lot since that day all those weeks ago, and I can only come to one logical conclusion: Bridgette doesn't fight fair. "She came into the shop armed, and I was no match for her secret weapon."

  "What's that?"

  "Not what… who. And that who, Aphrodite, is you."

  "Me?" Avery's voice trembles. "How?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine," I say. "But you walked in, and every rule I ever had was instantly broken because of it."

  Avery blushes as she ducks her head, staring at me through her long lashes.

  "Regardless, rules are rules for a reason," I continue. "There are some things I just won't do, places I'd rather not tattoo."

  I swipe my pointer finger into the red paint before gently running it across her cheek, leaving a smear of wet paint. "Like faces." I trail it down her neck. "And necks."

  Wordlessly, I dip it again in the red paint, making a similar mark on her other cheek. Avery swallows harshly when I swipe my fingertips along her neck. Slowly, I lean forward, kissing the dip in her throat. "Throats."

  I grasp her hands, holding them in one of mine, as I dip my finger into the green paint. I swipe an x on the back of each hand before turning them over and painting her palms. "Hands are another no-no."

  "Your hands are tattooed," she points out.

  I glance down at mine instinctively. The words 'rise' and 'fall' are inked along my knuckles, faded and in desperate need of yet another touch up. "They are."

  "What does it mean?" she asks. "Why those words?"

  "It reminds me that whatever goes up always comes back down," I reply, "and when I'm down, the only place left to go is up. It puts things into perspective for me."

  "That's brilliant."

  "It's stupid," I correct her. "Hands, necks, faces… they heal terribly, and the ink can fade, and blur, and what you're left with usually isn't what you signed up for."

  "Is that it?"

  "No," I say, laughing. "Not even close."

  I dip my fingers in the orange paint, swirling colors together, and kneel down in front of her. She grasps my shoulders, steadying herself, as I swipe paint along her feet. "I hate doing feet, but especially the soles. Definitely a no-no."

  She curls her toes, shifting her feet, like she's trying to slink away from me. "Who in the world would tattoo the bottom of their foot?"

  "You'd be surprised, but I won't do it," I reply, my hands trailing her legs as I stand back up, startling her when I cup my hand around her pussy. "I won't do there, either."

  She gasps when my thumb strokes her clit through the flimsy fabric, a moan escaping that I silence with a deep kiss.

  "Or the lips," I whisper against her mouth. "That's probably the stupidest fucking tattoo I get asked for."

  I kiss her again, and again, a series of sweet pecks, before pulling away.

  I dip my fingers into the blue paint.

  "There are other places I personally prefer not to do," I say, letting a few drops of paint drip from my fingertips onto her skin. "But they're popular tattoos."

  "Where else?" she asks, her voice breathy. "Show me."

  I continually paint, smearing streaks of color along her body as I point out the places that hurt the worst, painting her ankles, hips, elbows, knees, and underarms, trailing paint along her ribs and all around the collarbones before stepping behind her. She shivers as I leisurely finger-paint a rainbow down her spine, my hand stalling at the small of her back when I lean down to kiss her shoulder.

  I step around her again, eyes surveying her, as I reach down and smear some leftover paint along her upper thighs, my fingertips grazing her panty line. "I'll do it, of course, but it isn't pleasant. I've had people cry on my table, grown men pass out from the pain. And it's always fucking beautiful, when I'm done, but it has to be worth the agony to see it though."

  "How do you know?" Avery asks. "How do you know if it's worth the pain?"

  "You just feel it," I reply, smearing paint along her skin, adding color wherever it calls to me. "You know it's right, that it's worth it, when you can't imagine not having it. People get tattoos because they're cool, because they're sexy, and fuck… they are… but they have to mean something. It doesn't matter what others think, or how others feel about it… you're the one who has to live with it. I don't give a shit if a guy walks into my shop and wants a Chihuahua tattooed on his left ass-cheek. I guarantee I won't like it, but I'll do it, happily, as long as I know it's special to him. As long as it has meaning. Because art is supposed to."

  I paint a red squiggly line down Avery's stomach, swirling my finger around her navel. "People ask for names, and all I think is, how are you going to feel about that person in five, ten, fifteen years? What are you going to think in thirty, forty years, when their name is still tattooed over your heart? People change, they grow up and fuck up, and sometimes they walk away for no damn reason. They decide you're not good enough, not smart enough… they judge you for how you look, what you do… the only guarantee in your life is yourself, but few people ever want their own name tattooed on their body. They want Joey, and Vinnie, and fucking Johnny."

  Avery snorts with laughter, shifting a step, making me mess up, accidently merging a blue line with red and yellow, causing an ugly brownish streak.

  "First rule of tattooing," I say, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Don't move."

  She smiles sheepishly.

  I take a step back, my eyes slowly scanning her body, my makeshift canvas of skin and bone, curves and angles, the sleekest muscles and softest flesh, the pieces that make up the infallible woman. Unlike me, she has no holes. She hasn't been broken and sloppily glued back together. I have, though.

  My cracks still show.

  "Perfect," I say, my gaze settling on the smudge she caused. "Almost."

  "Sorry."

  "Don't be."

  I pull my shirt off and toss it on the floor beside where Avery's dress lies. My hands find her hips, pulling her flush to me, as my lips meet hers. I kiss her passionately, grasping her thighs and pulling her up. She wraps her legs around my waist, letting out a playful squeal, as I carry her over to the small futon in the corner.

  "We're going to make a mess," Avery says, wrapping her arms around my neck, transferring wet paint from her skin to mine.

  I nip at her bottom lip with my teeth. "That's how you like it, isn't it? Filthy? Ugly?"

  "Nasty," she whispers playfully. "Rough."

  "Rough?"

  "Oh God yes," she says. "Definitely rough."

  This woman… this woman is trying to kill me.

  I'm convinced.

  She's my punishment. My Hail Mary's. My restitution.

  In a heartbeat, we're a jumble of bare skin and slick paint, coated with sweat and sin, as I give Avery exactly what she asks for from me. Pulling my last condom from my wallet, I quickly roll it on. I slide into her, hard and rough, hips crashing together damn near painfully as I pound her again and again. Cries fill the darkness, ecstasy building to the point of agony and merging into something that I can only vocalize with strained grunts and strangled curses.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Avery wraps her strong legs around me, twisting her sleek, flexible body in ways I never knew a woman could bend. We push and pull, giving and taking, surrendering to the other before commanding control, over and over until neither can take anymore. I come hard, nearly losing my breath at the intensity. I suppress a scream with her lips, lyin
g beneath her as she rides me, my hand roughly grasping the back of her neck as I kiss her.

  Avery stills as I loosen my hold on her. Her body sags against me, her chest moving rapidly as she fights to catch her breath. I just lay there for a while, silently staring up at the ceiling.

  "Reece?" Avery whispers eventually.

  "Yeah?"

  "I feel gross."

  I laugh, slipping out from beneath her and standing up. My legs wobble, my knees weak. Damn, I'm out of shape.

  "Come on," I say, offering her my hand. "Let's get it washed off."

  I lead her through the quiet apartment and to the bathroom. I turn on the water, adjusting it to warm, before turning to Avery. It's the first time tonight I'm seeing her clearly, the first time, ever, seeing her naked with all the lights on.

  My eyes instinctively scan her, her body covered in gray-streaked smudges, flaky patches of color from the paint that had already dried. She fidgets under my gaze, wrapping her arms around her chest as she turns sideways, shying away from the attention.

  "Ah, don't be like that," I say, pulling her hands away when she shields her breasts. "You're beautiful."

  "You trying to charm me again?"

  "No," I say. "I just compliment beauty when I see it."

  She has a gorgeous body, albeit a banged-up one. Her feet are particularly rough, and she seems to shift them away when I look down again. It's from dancing, though, battle wounds from fighting through her art, so if anything, it makes her more beautiful to me.

  She's a fucking warrior.

  A badass, tippy-toed, dancing warrior.

  I pull her into the shower with me, taking my time as I wash the paint from her skin. She melts at my touch, relaxing, her eyes fluttering closed, the sight of her skin flushing making my chest constrict. The sex vixen in the darkness is a blushing angel in the light, a walking contradiction that has me twisted. I want to know everything there is to know about her, see everything there is to see, dig deep down into her soul and understand what makes her tick... tick... tick.

  Because, I think, it might just be the same damn thing that claws around inside of me.

  The pressure against my back alternates between feather-light tickles and downright uncomfortable burrowing. I sit as still as humanly possible, grimacing, my eyes peeled to my desk as I try to sort through paperwork for inventory.

  "Daddy, I don't like these songs," Lexie whines, the pressure on my back pausing.

  "I'm the one getting the tattoo here," I say, shifting through the stacks of paper. "I pick the tunes, remember?"

  "But there's no words!"

  "If I can work through your MMMMBop crap, you can survive some instrumental music."

  "Ugh, it's so boring!"

  "Hey, now, I don't judge your choices."

  "But you told me to get my own 'pinion!"

  "And your opinion is that my music sucks?"

  "Yes!"

  She screeches it, digging painfully into my bare back with the marker as she goes back to tattooing me. Cringing, I close my eyes and grit my teeth. I prefer the damn needle to this. I can't imagine what she's even drawing. With my girl, and the mood she's in? There's no telling.

  Sharp feminine laughter echoes through the room from Ellie in the doorway. I open my eyes when she strolls over, sensing her pause behind me.

  "You almost done filling out those supply sheets, Reece?"

  I glance down at them, scribbling my signature on the last two, before holding them out to her. She snatches them away, laughing again.

  "That tattoo's banging, Lexie-girl," Ellie says. "I might need to schedule me an appointment with you."

  I laugh dryly. "I'm sure you can get her to do your face."

  Nearly every inch of Ellie is covered in tattoos, all except for the areas I refuse to touch. She's been begging me to tattoo a series of stars on her temples, but I've been refusing. I told her to ask Kevin, or Martin, but she won't.

  She knows they won't do it either.

  "I will!" Lexie says excitedly. "I'll do it!"

  "I'll pass," Ellie says, "for now."

  "I like tattoos," Lexie exclaims. "Daddy, can I tattoo Avery?"

  "Not before I do," I mutter, turning my attention to the rest of the paperwork, making sure everything is squared away.

  "Avery?" Ellie asks, still lingering in the room. "Who's that?"

  Lexie is quick to chime in. "She's Daddy's friend that's a girl."

  "Wait, a girlfriend?" Ellie asks, raising her voice slightly. "You're seeing somebody, Reece?"

  I don't respond, but I don't have to. Lexie has it covered for me. "She's not Daddy's girlfriend, silly! She's his friend, but she's a girl! We see her sometimes. She went to the museum with us, and she likes dinosaurs, too, but she doesn't know anything about them like I do."

  "Ah," Ellie says, that word laced with so many damn questions that I know she won't contain for long.

  "Hey, Little Miss," I say, holding a piece of paper out to her, a contract one of the other guys needs to sign. "Go tell Kevin I need his John Hancock."

  Lexie grabs the paper, dropping the marker on the floor, before bolting through the shop. I push my stool back and stand up, walking to the mirror to look at my back. I can hardly make out whatever it is supposed to be, just big black shapes pieced together. Shaking my head, I tug on my shirt and turn to Ellie just as she speaks up.

  "Seriously, Reece? You're bringing your bimbos around your daughter now?"

  "A," I say, holding up one finger, "I don't need you to tell me how to raise my kid. Other people do that enough. And B, Avery's not a bimbo."

  "So she's your girlfriend?"

  "I don't know," I say honestly. "Why does everyone have to try to label everything?"

  "Because that's life," Ellie says. "Everything's a label, even a non-label. If she's not your girlfriend, she's what? Your fuck buddy?"

  "She's my friend."

  "That you're fucking, correct?" Ellie asks. "Because I've never known Reece Hatfield to have a female friend he didn't fuck."

  "You," I say. "Never fucked you."

  "That's because I'm gay, you dumb twat, but I distinctly remember a time years ago when you tried any-damn-way."

  I laugh lightly. "So maybe Avery and I are, you know, but that doesn't make her my fuck buddy."

  "Then what does it make her?"

  "A special friend."

  "Oh, Jesus Christ, Reece, do you hear yourself? That's what I told my mother I had before I came out. I had a special friend."

  "So?"

  "So it's what you call a girl when you're too damn chicken shit to admit she's your girlfriend."

  "C," I say, holding up three fingers. "I'm not now nor have I ever been chicken shit. And D, I don't remember asking you for relationship advice, so keep it to yourself, Dear Abby."

  Lexie comes running back to the room just as Ellie starts walking out. "Yeah, well, how about E, Reece… eat me."

  "F," I holler out at her as Lexie screeches to a stop in front of me. "Eff you."

  "Oh, I wanna play!" Lexie says excitedly. "G. Garfield!"

  I shake my head. "Uh, H. Hatfield."

  "J," Lexie shouts. "Juice!"

  "Next letter is I," I correct her. "Not J."

  "Oh. I." Her forehead scrunches up before her expression brightens and she points at her eye. "Eye!"

  I chuckle. Close enough.

  "How about I," I say, pointing to myself, "take you to the park instead of hanging around this place all day?"

  "K," Lexie says, clapping her hands like we're still playing the game. "'Kay? Can Avery come, too?"

  "Uh, not this time."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't know how to get a hold of her."

  "Call her!"

  "I don't have her number," I say. "Besides, she's probably too busy with dance rehearsals to go to the park today."

  "Can we go see her dance?" Lexie asks. "I wanna dance, too!"

  "Afraid not, Little Miss," I s
ay, frowning. "Maybe some other time, but today it's just you and me."

  "It's okay, Daddy," Lexie says, smiling as she reaches over and pats the back of my hand. "Don't be sad. I still like playing with you, too."

  An artist on vacation… a receptionist with a hangover… two cancellations back-to-back.

  Monday at the shop is shaping up to be Hell.

  I casually lounge in a chair in the lobby, my feet propped up on the corner of the receptionist's desk. Ellie flips through the tattered appointment book, the phone tucked in the crook of her neck. She looks like shit. "Uh, we have a short opening next Wednesday with Kevin, and Martin could maybe squeeze you in for a consultation when he gets back from his vacation Monday, but Hatfield could probably see you within the next few days."

  I glance at the clock. It's only half past ten, and thanks to my cancellations, I have nothing to do until two in the afternoon. I nearly point that out to Ellie when she chimes back in on the phone call, her words silencing me.

  "You said this was for a vine of flowers down your spine, correct? And you have a picture you found online? Right… your consultation would only take a few minutes, since you're set on the design, and then Kevin could probably do the tattoo the same day... the 30th."

  Please go with Kevin.

  "Martin, I believe, could get to it then, too."

  Or Martin.

  "Hatfield's schedule has a full opening on the twenty-second, if you don't want to wait."

  Not me.

  "Great," Ellie says, jotting something down on the twenty-second. Fuck. "We'll see you then."

  She hangs up the phone, eyeing me intently as I let out an exaggerated sigh. My reaction makes her laugh as she flips back through the appointment book to the right day.

  "She's a total Barbie doll, isn't she?" Ellie asks.

  "Nope."

  We've been going back and forth since the shop opened thirty minutes ago, Ellie trying to figure out Avery while I dismiss her absurd conclusions.

  "She's probably a librarian," she says. "You guys get off on those prudes wearing reading glasses and pencil skirts."